Page 5

FOUR

JADE

I never minded that Irish had a room at the clubhouse. All the guys did, and my husband was no exception.

In the earlier years, it was convenient after a night of partying. But after we started having kids, I didn’t let loose all that much, and the nights I spent here were more about safety. I kept a drawer for myself, and one for the kids. They were mostly filled with the necessities, a couple of outfits, some underwear, and of course pajamas. I was big on pajamas, tops and bottoms always had to match, even if they wound up rolled into a ball on the floor. Same for bras and panties.

There were some toys in the closet too, and a crib in the corner from when Raiden was a baby. I wanted them to feel comfortable and have everything they needed when things got rough around here, and everything felt uncertain. Irish was happy to oblige, but as much as we tried to shield them, and make these lockdowns as normal as possible, things changed as Legend got older. I don’t know if he could sense the tension or what, but he stopped buying our lies about the lockdowns being big slumber parties. It’s true what they say—the kids succumbed to this lifestyle grow up faster than the kids whose parents make honest livings.

I pull the blanket up over both the boys, pressing my lips gently to Legend’s forehead first, then I do the same to Raiden. They look so peaceful and innocent,

Pure.

Smoothing a hand down my silk maternity pajamas, my hand pauses on my bump as I head for the door, pausing to glance over my shoulder at my boys one more time before I exit the room and make my way to the common area.

I excused myself a couple of hours ago, after the brothers did a shot in honor of Irish. Faking pleasantries and taking the condolences offered by people I didn’t know was exhausting. I just wanted to crawl into bed with my boys, and revel in the scent of Irish’s cologne that still lingered on the sheets.

The boys struggled to fall asleep, which was surprising because it was such a long day. But they didn’t have their daddy there to make an adventure of bedtime like he often did when we had to spend nights here, and I was a poor replacement.

I don’t know how to be their mother and their father, but I do know I am not going to figure it out here, surrounded by the men who wear the same patch as he did.

The patch that stole him from us.

We need to be home, in our own house, finding a way to grieve while gathering the courage to move on.

I step out of the shadows, immediately spotting Biggie and Shotgun. A few other members loiter around the room, but they’re the only ones at the bar. Drawing in a deep breath, I make my way over to them. I know better to interrupt, especially when they seem to be in deep conversation, so I pace myself.

Shotgun’s voice grows louder, though, and it’s impossible for me to ignore his words.

“…I know everyone here wants to avenge Irish’s death, and play their part, but I draw the last breath out of the three men who tortured us, and Fatmir is mine, and mine alone.”

I don’t catch Biggie’s reply. I’m too stuck on the name he dropped, wondering if that’s who killed my husband.

“Jade, sweetheart,” Biggie calls.

Startled, I blink at him wordlessly for a moment. Shotgun turns in his stool, but he just stares at me, his expression blank. “You need something? The boys?—”

I tear my eyes away from Shotgun and meet Biggie’s gaze. “We’re leaving. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and Legend has school. We need to get back to our routines.”

“Honey,” he sighs. “It isn’t safe.”

“I understand the concern, so I will tolerate a prospect. You can have him tail me or stand guard at the house. Whatever you decide, I won’t try to interfere, but I can’t stay here. I will lose my mind, Biggie, and my kids can’t afford to lose another parent. I’m asking for your grace.”

My voice quivers at that last part. I’m not opposed to begging if that’s what it takes.

He turns his attention to Shotgun which results in me doing the same. I can tell by the tight set of his jaw he doesn’t like the idea.

“It can’t be Skid,” he says firmly, his eyes cutting to Biggie. “The kid can’t even tie his fucking shoelaces.” He turns back to me. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t like this.”

That comes as no surprise to me. The man forced a brother to take his shirt off at my husband’s funeral so I wouldn’t stand barefoot in the dirt. It’s also no surprise that my oldest has been clinging to him since he learned his dad died. Legend has always favored his Uncle Shotty, and I know he’s going to need him, probably about as much as Shotgun is going to need Legend to feel close to Irish. I’m not looking to take that away from either of them. I just need time.

“I didn’t think you would.” I tilt my head and study him, noting he looks as exhausted as I feel. “The boys will expect you to visit, especially Legend.”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. “Just say when and I’m there.”

Typical of him to leave it up to me. I always thought he’d be the friend that camps out on the couch after Irish and I got married, but Shotgun never showed up without an invitation. He’s like the family member that never wants to overstay his welcome, always keeping his distance until someone tells him it’s okay to be an active participant in the family.

“Where’s Dad, today?” The sonogram technician asks as she squirts the gel onto my belly. “When I saw your name on the schedule, I got excited. He always brings the office pastries from Alba. Tell him he owes me a cannoli next month.”

Getting the kids out of the house this morning was brutal. Irish always made sure to take Legend to school, giving me a little extra time to get myself ready before I dropped Raiden at his preschool program. Of course I misjudged time, so everyone was late. After I left Raiden’s school, I sat in my truck and cried for ten minutes.

I’m realizing now, those precious minutes would’ve been better spent preparing for my first sonogram appointment without my husband.

When I don’t respond, the technician turns to face me, and her eyes go wide when they see the tears spilling down my cheeks.

“Oh my God. Did I say something wrong?”

Boy, did she ever.

I wipe away my tears. “My husband passed away unexpectedly.”

That sounds a lot better than saying my husband was killed by a guy named Fatmir. It didn’t make the news because the guy who brought you cannolis was a one percenter in a motorcycle club and they’re masterminds of keeping untimely murders under wraps.

A gasp flies past her lips, and she quickly lifts her hand to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Callahan. Please forgive me.”

Shotgun: How’d it go at the doctor?

I stare at the text for a few moments, hating that it’s him texting me. My anger isn’t even rational. I mean it’s not like Irish ever texted me after a sonogram appointment. There was never a need, he was always there. He was also always the first to take the sonogram photos we got at the visit and add them to the previous ones on the side of the fridge.

That reminds me I didn’t add the new photo. Setting my phone on the counter, I walk into the living room and grab my oversized Louis Vuitton purse. The strip of photos is right on top of my wallet, and I feel a faint smile touch my lips when I see my unborn son.

“Eight more weeks,” I whisper, pressing my hand to my belly. He isn’t very active today, but that doesn’t alarm me. All my boys like to kick when I’m lying down. They’re generous like that.

I head back into the kitchen, tacking the sonogram photos on the fridge with the others, before doing another sweep around the room. All the dishes are done. Legend’s lunchbox is clean and ready for the next day. I didn’t take out the garbage, or separate the recycling, but I’ll do it tomorrow. There are three baskets of laundry waiting for me upstairs.

Swiping my phone from the counter, I close the lights in the kitchen and head for the stairs, but I pause at the door, making sure I set the alarm. Through the glass panels on the front door, I spot Fuckface. I wasn’t paying attention to notice if he followed me from errand to errand, but I heard the distinct sound of his bike when I was cooking dinner. Come to think of it now, I probably should’ve sent him out a burger. If he’s still there in the morning, I’ll bring him out a cup of coffee.

I climb the stairs, phone still in my hand and another text from Shotgun comes through.

Shotgun: ?

Reaching the top of the landing, I swipe my thumbs over the screen and start to reply to his text.

It was horrible. The technician asked where Irish was, and I burst into tears.

Instead of sending all that, I delete every word.

Me: Everything looked good. Baby is right on track.

“You have to eat, Irene,” I say gently to my mother-in-law. I’m not going to lie, I am not in the running to win any awards for best daughter-in-law. In fact, this might be my first visit to her since Irish and I found out I was pregnant. About three years ago, her MS really started to progress, and her mobility became almost non-existent. That’s when we made the hard decision to put her in a home with round-the-clock care. It was a temporary fix. The plan was always to make the side apartment in our house wheelchair accessible for her and hire a private nurse. Life just kept getting in the way. But Irish always carved out time to visit her twice a week.

“If you don’t like the food here anymore, I can stop and get you something before I visit.” I know she sometimes has difficulties swallowing, but there must be something I can get her to eat. In the two weeks since Irish’s funeral, she looks even thinner than she did then and that’s alarming.

Irene doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know if that’s because she physically can’t or if she’s too depressed to speak, so I just sit with her until it’s time to pick up the boys.

The next time I come, I’ll bring her some soup from the diner.

When I pull up to the house, Fuckface’s bike is parked on the street in front, and he’s pulling out the garbage pails from the side of the house. I park in the driveway and silently breathe a sigh of relief. One less thing for me to do.

“Why is he always here?” Legend asks, staring out the back passenger window.

“He’s just being helpful.”

“But all he does is stand outside our house.”

“That’s not true, he’s taking out the garbage right now, and yesterday he mowed the lawn.”

I’m sure he was trying to be helpful, but I don’t think the landscaper is going to be pleased when he comes for the weekly cut and sees the checkered pattern on the front lawn. From what I hear, Fuckface is a master at repairing vintage bikes, but that must be where his expertise with machinery ends.

“Do you think Uncle Shotty will come by soon?”

I stare at my boy from the rearview mirror. It’s the first time he’s asked to see anyone from the club specifically. Normally, I wouldn’t blink an eye, but he’s grieving his father, and I don’t want him to think everyone he cares about has just upped and vanished from his life.

Shotgun hasn’t texted or called since my doctor’s appointment, and I kind of like it that way. I may be on the struggle bus, but at least I’m moving at my own pace. If he called or came by, he’d see through the facade and do everything in his power to help wherever he could. It’s just in his nature. I need to learn how to do all the hard stuff on my own. If someone swoops in and picks up the broken pieces, I’ll never be the mom my kids need me to be.

I also think his energy is better served transitioning into his new role as vice president. As selfish as this may sound, I want revenge on my husband’s death, and deep down, I know Shotgun wants that just as badly as I do. He won’t quit until he gets it too. And that puts his life at risk. It makes him a target.

“I’m sure he’ll stop by to see you boys soon,” I finally say. “Let’s get you boys in the house. I’m too tired to cook tonight. How do we feel about pizza?”

Legend’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “Can we get sausage and pepperoni?”

“Whatever you want, baby.” My gaze flits to Raiden, and before he can object, I assure him we’ll get a plain cheese too.”

I barely have Raiden out of his booster seat when Fuckface rounds the truck, holding a kraft bag out to me.

“Shotgun dropped this off. He said it’s for Legend.”

I close my eyes as soon as the words leave his lips, already anticipating the tantrum.

“What about me?” Raiden cries. I don’t even have to look at him to know his lower lip is trembling. My eyes spring open, and I snatch the bag from Fuckface. I’m starting to understand the meaning behind his road name. If my kid wasn’t on the verge of a total meltdown, I might laugh at the expression that clouts his face. Clearly, the guy doesn’t have too much experience with kids. Hell, I bet he doesn’t have any siblings.

“Uncle didn’t get me a gift?”

“Uh… it’s for both of you,” Fuckface says. “I mean… I think.” His neck turns beat red as he combs his fingers through his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry Jade. I don’t even know what the fuck is in the bag.”

“It’s fine.” Taking Raiden’s hand in mine, I glance down at him as I give it a squeeze. “Fuck—” I stop myself before I can regard the man in front of me by his road name in front of my son. The last thing I need is for him to go to preschool talking about the mysterious uncle Fuckface that broke his heart. Turning my attention back to the prospect, I shake my head. “What’s your name?”

“Fuckface.”

I grit my teeth. Why Shotgun didn’t think Skid was a better option is beyond me. “Your real name. I can’t have my kids calling you Fuckface.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess that would be bad. They can call me Phil.”

Hmm. He looks like a Phil.

I look back at Raiden. “Phil is going to go to Target and buy you a surprise.”

Raiden’s watery eyes go wide as he stares up at Fuckface. “You is?”

“Uh…” He looks at me, his eyes pleading with mine.

“You are.”

“But—”

“No buts. Anything cars will do.”

Without giving him room to argue, I march toward my front door. Once we’re inside, I send the boys upstairs to wash up and I open the bag to find a brand-new cellphone, and a handwritten note.

Have the boys call me if they want. My number is the only one programed.

I stare at the poor penmanship, guilt tugging at me. I’d like to think it’s because I sent Fuckface on a mission to buy Hot Wheels when the gift was actually for both boys, but realistically, I know that isn’t it.

That’s why I pull out my phone and shoot him a text.

Me: Thank you for the phone but you didn’t have to do that.

Shotgun: Its better this way. They don’t have to bother you if they want to call, and I don’t have to haunt you when I want to hear their voices.

I purse my lips as I reread his message.

What he’s really saying is—I see through your bullshit, Jade.

Well played, Shotgun. Well played.

The grief comes in waves. Most of the time I’m too busy to remember I’m a thirty-two-year-old widow. Then it hits me out of nowhere. Tonight it came when Raiden asked for a glass of milk before he went to bed. I was having Braxton Hicks contractions all day, which wasn’t even the worst part—I had them with both my prior pregnancies. It was going downstairs only to find I forgot to buy a gallon of milk when I was out, that set me off.

It's only been three weeks, and I can honestly say I’m exhausted. I don’t want to do any of this anymore. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Irish should be here. He should be holding me, trying to hide that sinful smirk of his, as he assures me it’s just the hormones making me crazy.

Raiden went to bed without his milk, but I put in an Instacart order before I came up to take a shower, that way the boys can have cereal tomorrow. Problem fixed, right? I shouldn’t be crying in the shower, trying like hell to remember what it feels to have my husband’s arms around me. How am I supposed to go through the rest of my life without ever feeling his touch again?

The water streams over me and my stomach goes rock hard, another Braxton Hick contraction working its way through me. I press my hands to my belly, breathing through it just as I’ve been doing all day. Until this moment, I haven’t allowed myself to think about what it will be like to give birth without Irish at my side.

Who is going to feed me ice chips, and rub my back as I labor?

Who will assure me that I’m doing a great job, and hold my legs while I push?

Who will cut the cord?

Who will dress Raiden and Legend in their Big Brother shirts and bring them to the hospital to meet their younger brother?

Suddenly it becomes too hard to breathe. I brace my hands against the tile wall, my vision blurring slightly as the pain becomes excruciating. I try to count back from ten, convincing myself it will pass, but when my vision clears, I see the blood dripping down the insides of my thighs. At first it doesn’t register, and I blink three times, foolishly expecting it to be a figment of my imagination. But it’s there, bright red blood all over my legs, swirling down the drain.

“Oh God, no,” I cry. “Please don’t do this.”

I turn off the water, struggling to keep myself upright as I push open the shower door. In a poor attempt to contain the blood, I press my thighs together, but it doesn’t do anything. By some miracle of God, I make my way out of the shower and grab the silk robe from the hook behind the door. I don’t bother drying myself as I slip my arms through the sleeves, reciting all the things I need to do.

Call for Legend.

Get to the phone.

Call 9-1-1.

Save my baby.

My fingers fumble as I try to tie the robe. Another contraction slams into me, and this time my legs buckle from the pain. I try to catch myself, but my reflexes are compromised by the pain, and all I can do is brace my palms against the tile as I fall to my knees.

A feral groan rips from the back of my throat.

Call for Legend.

Get to the phone.

Call 9-1-1.

Save my baby.

The blood seeps through my robe as I crawl out of the bathroom, and I scratch the first thing from my list. I can’t let my boy see me like this. He’ll be terrified. I barely make it five feet, before I collapse, and roll onto my back, clutching my stomach. Sanctioning whatever strength I can muster, I crawl into my bedroom. I spot the phone charging on the nightstand.

Just a little more.

Five, maybe ten feet.

Please, God. Please.

I need to save my baby.

I don’t know why I brought God into it. He’s failed me every time, and he fails me now.